I believe one should pour a cup of dirt over life. I miss gravel roads and people in Wrangler jeans and fields and wild spaceness. I've got the upper midwest still in me blood. Though I hardly passed as a native, I could never bring myself to say "bayg" instead of bag and other some-suches. You know, never took to the binge drinking and barn dances too much. I gobbled up books to have a form of metropolitan support of art and literary societous discussions and detective adventures.
Maybe I will start an afternoon tradition of pouring a glass of water into the garden in front of my house then squishing my toes in the mud. I could make raucous proclamations about the healthiness of dirt and never letting my mother have the satisfaction of having a daughter with clean feet.
(Though I do wash them every night, Momma.)
My sister is crocheting damnation. OK, I take that back, she's crocheting flames. And I'm contemplating crocheting the sea this summer. I want it to star in my next film. We're reviving the old yarn arts currently. Very dangerous stuff.
Accordion dangerous.
